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Dos Tacos is a small, locally owned Tex-Mex restaurant located in downtown Blackbird Cove, a block away from Mark’s handyman shop. It’s one of my favorite spots—the restaurant, not his shop, to be clear. Particularly, the outdoor patio that was built around a hundred-year-old oak tree. Every single branch is wrapped in strings of lights. It’s beautiful at night. On “Taco Tuesdays,” they have a mariachi band. A real mariachi band with trumpets, violins, and guitars. The musicians wear traditional three-piece suits and wink when you tip them. I love it.
I have chosen our usual spot, the back corner table, inches from the tree trunk. It’s the only table available. The patio is packed, locals and tourists flocking to the outdoors to celebrate the stunning autumn weather.
The door swings open and Emma hurries across the patio, kaftan flowing, hair braided. The men turn as she passes. She hangs her beaded purse on the back of the seat as the waiter walks up. He’s new, I note, mid-twenties with long brown hair tied into a man bun, and bored bloodshot eyes that suggest he’s only just awoken, despite the fact that it is three-thirty in the afternoon.
“I’ll take a Miller Light,” Emma says.
The waiter nods, looks at me. “Margarita on the rocks.”
What’s the mark of a good friend, you ask? One who doesn’t judge when you order a tequila in the middle of your workday. I still have two more client appointments to get through.
Emma sinks into the chair. It feels like forever since our early-morning parent-teacher conference, and she looks unusually tired.
“Tough day?” I ask, my mouth watering as the waiter slides a bucket of beer onto the table next to us.
“I had two kids throw up,” she scowls, squeezing a blob of antibacterial gel on her hands. “Literally thirty minutes apart. All over our reading carpet. One on one end, one on the other. The room still stinks.”
“Gross.”
“I know. They have the stomach flu.”
I dramatically propel myself against the back of my chair and cross myself.
Emma laughs and shakes her head. “No, don’t worry, you’re good. I had it last week. No germs here.”
“Thank God. You know that the norovirus can live on door knobs for five days?”
“Girl, please—I know.”
“Speaking of last week… You had another date, didn’t you? We haven’t talked about that yet. Fill me in. I need gossip.” I also need her not to bring up Connor and how she thinks something is wrong with my son. I’m still processing, and quite frankly, don’t want to talk about it.
The waiter delivers our drinks. We both pause to take long, deep sips.
“How did it go?” I press, licking the salt from my lips and feeling the tingle of goosebumps over my skin.
Emma pauses.
A grin spreads across my face. “Oh my God, that good?”
“I don’t know—I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“Oh my—you like him? You actually like this mystery guy?”
“He’s…” Her cheeks flush. “I don’t know yet, Amber.”
“What’s his name?”
Emma vehemently shakes her head. “Nope, not until I’m sure.”
I laugh, roll my eyes. Emma has this thing of not “naming” a man until she is certain he’s going to stick around for a bit. As a therapist, I know this is a defense mechanism triggered by the need for self-preservation; I get it.
Emma has never been married. She is two months shy of her thirty-second birthday and, if I had to guess, is beginning to feel her clock ticking. I know she wants kids; she just hasn’t found the right man to procreate with. Honestly, I feel bad for her. My best friend is a free spirit, has lived a wild and crazy and unrestricted gypsy life, and now it seems that life is passing her by.
“Promise you’ll keep me updated on the guy?” I ask when I realize she’s not going to indulge me.
“Promise. Now. How’s Mark?”
I immediately drop my eyes. I have a visceral reaction to hearing my husband’s name.
